Triggers CH1 PT1

Chapter 1

The room circles around him like the rotating propellers of the helicopter overhead as he leans his head against the wall, letting his eyelids drop over his blue eyes as the world crumbled to the carpet at his feet. Sliding down the wall, his chest heaves with the pressure, his heart barely beating behind his ribs. He lifts his arm heavily and runs his fingers through his hair, its thick shaggy locks matted close against his sweaty skin, the uncomfortable feeling adding to his stress. He opens his eyes and glances around at the unused, never-to-be-used-again furnishings in the sparse apartment. The once blue paint chipped like artwork off the walls and onto the stained carpet. The sofa against the wall is now leaning towards the floor, as if heaving with the weight Chris feels in his own chest. 
His cell phone buzzes in his pocket, a phone call he will probably never return. He pulls his hands to his knees and rests his head against them. He came to the Damien’s apartment to gather the last few nick knacks that were scattered around on the furniture, and maybe to find a little bit of closure in the empty rooms. It tore him apart though, and he was exhausted from the eruption of emotion that sent the couch, pillows, and tables all around the living room. 
A dog barks outside, dragging him to memories of the restless woods, the ghosts among the trees silently stepping over dry twigs, hearing the hammer of the gun drop moments before the gunfire. 
Bang. 
Bang. 
Bang. 
The rifle goes off in Chris’s mind. 
Bang. 
Bang. 
Bang. 
Eyes. He sees the soft grey eyes of his brother, Damien, blinking slowly as he breathes in, out, in, out, and pulls the trigger. The buck goes down, the bloodhound instantly bolting to ensure he stays down. 
Bang. 
Someone else is in the woods. 
Bang. 
This is no hunter. 
Bang. 
Chris glances at the gun case next to him. 
Bang. 
He hears the grunt, the drop, as his brother falls limp to the ground. 
Bang. 
They aren’t in the woods. This isn’t back home. This isn’t a memory from long ago. Bang. 
Over and over again, that sound. 
Bang. 
The flight home is just a blurry picture, like smeared paint on a canvas, but becoming ever clearer. 
Bang. 
He sees the eyes of the man behind the gun, brown, cold, inhuman. 
Bang. 
No regrets. 
Bang. 
Bang. 
Chris stands, walks confidently to the couch, puts it back on its feet. He glances around the room, pulls a small key from the pocket of his brother’s brown jacket, the one that now never leaves the truck, locks the large oak gun case, and leaves, locking the apartment door behind him. Remembering the phone call, he checks his phone. Stephanie again, he must have forgotten to tell her he was going to Damien’s. He sends their sister a text, only to let her know he’s ok. Trotting down the stairs outside the apartment, nodding casual greetings to Damien’s neighbors, thankful they ask no questions, he reaches the truck. Damien’s hat sits on the dash, fading in the sun, which shines intensely through the windshield. Reaching for his aviators, Christopher stops short. 
Damien’s fiancé, Amber, sits stone-like in the car next to him, staring down at the clasped fists in front of her. She must have wanted to stop by, maybe she, like himself, was hoping surrounding herself with Damien’s life would erase the pain of his death. 
He steps out of the truck and knocks on the passenger window of her car, instantly regretting it as she jumps, obviously not aware of his presence. Chris sees the tearstains on her cheeks and walks slowly to the driver side door, gently pulling her against his shoulder as she whimpers quietly against his flannel shirt. Amber and Damien were going to be married as soon as they got back from this tour, which would have been only three weeks away. After their parents, Amber was the first person Chris had to call, numbly speaking words he didn’t quite believe, that Damien was coming home early, bearing his nation’s flag, proudly giving his life to his country, a promise that every soldier is willing to make, but only a few are required to carry out. 
Amber’s tears slow, and she pulls back, her lips quivering. 
“Does it look the same?”
“No,” Chris hesitates, “it’s too quiet.” 
Amber nods. Even though Damien was a quiet man, always lending a shoulder to cry on or an ear to listen to anyone’s fickle problems, his absence from that apartment would cause a silence so deadening, even a stranger would be able to feel the weight of his loss. 
“I’m glad you were there, Chris,” she whispers as she turns back to her car. Resting her small hand on the door, she sighs and twists toward him, “Damien…” she stops, unable to finish her thought, wipes another tear from her pale cheek and drives away. Chris stands, stuck in the parking lot, memories triggered by her words flowing into his mind like the river he and Damien visited the summer after high school, that was so powerful they had to yell to hear each other. But these memories aren’t like those. They don’t bring a smile to his face or laughter to his tired eyes, only pain. 
The memories are interrupted by another phone call, Stephanie again. This time he answers.
“Chris? Oh…oh, thank God you…you p-picked up.” Something must be wrong; she is talking quickly, stumbling over her own tongue.
“Stephanie, what is it?”
“It’s a…guest.”
“Stephanie…”
“No. Chris, it’s...he’s s-standing here, in the l-living room.” She said, almost sounding happy if not for the quickness of her voice, her own characteristically nervous habit.
“Stephanie…are you ok?” Stephanie had handled the news of Damien’s death badly at first, but it’s been two months now. She hasn’t been this shaken in several weeks.
“Chris…come.” He needed no other reason, his sister needed him, something was wrong.